


Angst to Fluff Patron-Minette

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Tumblr Prompt, chapter summary for each ficlet, well as fluffy as I can make this bunch, you give me angst I give you fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-02-26 13:05:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: A collection of ficlets first posted on tumblr, for a game where I asked for angst promtps and turned it into fluff instead.Featuring a lot of Modern AU and some Urban Fantasy.





	1. Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Montparnasse catches Jehan redhanded, covered in blood.
> 
> Cw: blood, death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Lark <3

“Jehan?”

Montparnasse slants his head when there is only silence in response.

“Jehan?” he calls out again, shrugging out of his coat.

Not a sound. The house feels empty.

With a frown growing on his face Montparnasse makes his way through the hallway, the living room, the kitchen. Nowhere a trace to be-

His head snaps up as soon as his eyes catch the flurry of movement through the kitchen window. Why would they be in the garden? It’s an early winter this year. It’s  _freezing_. His feet are already moving and he doesn’t bother to go back for his coat before he hurries out the back door. The cold air doesn’t bite at his cheeks, that have had no time to warm up, but it claws at his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt. Much more urgent than the cold the air carries is the metallic scent that comes with it, however.

Two steps onto the garden path and Montparnasse realises it’s blood. Three steps and he sees Jehan.

Montparnasse holds still.

“ _Jehan_.”

His darling redhead turns around, crimson dripping from their fingers and scarlet burning on their cheeks. They nearly look apologetic. Nearly. As he steps closer Montparnasse can still feel the heat coming off the blood runes they drew in a circle on the shabby garden tiles. Around Jehan’s feet a small cluster of birds, probably born out of season, judging from their downy feathers, are beginning to make their chirping voices heard. Shaking the deadly frost off their feathers with happy, if somewhat dazed, little flutters of their wings. Jehan looks down at their revived flock with sweet affection on their face.

When they look up to meet his eyes Montparnasse has an exasperated look prepared and Jehan puffs up their chest defensively.

“Just because nature is cruel doesn’t mean  _I_  have to be.” They hold out their hand and one of the birds happily hops onto their fingers, looking as enamoured as Montparnasse guesses a bird can look.

“Honestly,” he sighs, lightly scratching a warming sygil between his exposed collar bones with the nail of his thumb to drive off the cold. “We  _talked_ about this, li—” He cuts himself off.

Jehan’s eyes spark with laughter. “Little bird?” they prompt triumphantly. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Montparnasse grimaces and Jehan laughs, making the flock of fledglings jump happily around their shoes in shared merriment. They carefully lift one feet up over them, wiping an opening in the circle before moving towards Montparnasse.

“I am your little bird,” they coo. “And now these are  _my_  little birds.”

They push themselves up on their toes for a moment to press a kiss to his cheek and the touch of their lips warms him far faster than his magic ever could.

“Here,” Jehan beams. “Hold this one.” And Montparnasse allows them to deposit the cheeping little ball of down into his hands.

He watches how Jehan stoops to gather up the other birds. The blood on their hands by now too much dried to stain, but still looking rather ghastly. The once more alive creatures beep at Jehan, nestling into their cupped hands with the decided air of animals that have no intention of leaving any time soon. He can see where this is going, they’re going to be living in the damn house.

“You know,” Montparnasse remarks, making an effort to ignore the fact that the tiny bird he is holding has sat down on his palm and is trying to preen its feathers like a fullgrown. “This is why necromancers have a bad reputation. You go around collecting things that ought to be dead.”

“Ought to be, ought to be,” Jehan tuts, coming to stand beside him so they can put their head against his shoulder and lift the birds up for the both of them to see. “There’s very little that ought to be in this world. You  _ought_  to help me name them though.”

They look up at Montparnasse and he looks down at them, the scent of blood magic still clinging to their hair and delighted affection settled deep in their eyes.

He sighs, and nods at the bird basking in the magic warmth on his hand. “Let’s start with that one then.”


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Babet must choose, follow his family and abandon Montparnasse or leave with Montparnasse and leave his family behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Adrian <3

In the quiet of his (usually) unshared apartment Babet stares at the unexpected text on his phone. Or rather at the last sentence of it. “Knew you’d want to know.”

Babet snarls softly. Well, it’s a good thing Homère is so damn sure of himself because  _he_  is not at all sure this is the sort of thing he wants to know.

Of course he has been keeping  _some_  tabs on his family, what man wouldn’t, but this is the sort of information he probably could have done without. So, she’s finally found someone else. Or perhaps, and Babet is self-aware enough to realises that this is probably the more probable option, this guy finally has finally, at long last, convinced her to make the same mistake she did once before. Or maybe it had been his mistake, not hers. He’s the one that knocked her up after all. Getting married was an afterthought.

Babet gets to his feet and without knowing where the hell he’s going, he’s already halfway through the room towards the door. He stops in his tracks, wincing at the absurdity of it. It’s been  _years_. So what if she’s got someone else. What is he going to do? Stop her? He never could stop her from doing anything. The marriage was her idea. So was the divorce. What had he told her? That he’d leave, if that was the only thing that was going to make her happy. …and she’d told him she’d be happy on the day he proved he was capable of being a decent father. That he’d ever make a decent husband she’d clearly given up on already. He had just signed the damn papers for her.

His thoughts are shattered by a short, rhythmic knock on the door.

Once again he’s moving without meaning to. Only the boys use that knock. No, not boys, he has to remind himself, not since Fauntleroy joined. Either way, he’s not surprised to see Montparnasse when he answers the door.

“Hi,” Montparnasse says, with his usual nearly-indifferent air, and without waiting for a return greeting he adds: “Is this what it’s mean to do?” He holds up his hand, the bandage Babet applied on it yesterday shifted out of place and exposing gauze-covered skin.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Babet gripes and he waves Montparnasse inside.

Once seated compliantly at the table, Babet busies himself with changing Montparnasse’s bandage, giving the boy a sarcastic reminder of what’s likely to happen if he doesn’t keep his wounds clean.

Montparnasse doesn’t seem that bothered, he never is.

“Thanks,” he says, sliding off the chair as soon as he has all his limbs to himself again and Babet grunts at him.

“Now don’t mess it up again.” He grimaces. “And keep it  _clean_. What the hell was that, nail polish?”

“Maybe,” Montparnasse grins. He leans against the table, looking at him from behind his carefully straightened hair. “Pretty much everyone is at mine tonight. Want to come?”

Babet puts the first aid kit back on its shelf, humming absent-mindedly. He knows where she lives, where she took the kids, it makes sense she’d get married from there too…

“Babet.”

He looks up. Montparnasse is looking at him quizzically.

“Hm?”

“If you’re not coming, can you at least call Glor and tell him not to poison us all. He’s cooking.”

Babet’s face clouds with mild horror. Just because the brats are old enough to sign a lease now doesn’t mean they’re capable of running a household. “Cooking  _what_?” he croaks.

Montparnasse shrugs and for a split second Babet has a vision of that impossible mess of kids actually setting a kitchen on fire.

His impossible mess of kids.

“Oh go on then,” Babet grunts, and he pushes Montparnasse towards the front door so he can put on his coat.

Before tucking his phone in his pocket, he deletes Homères text.

.

Turns out there was no real cause for concern after all. Gueulemer has already taken over from Glorieux by the time Montparnasse and Babet arrive.

Everyone eats with their plates balanced on their knees, making enough noise to make the shabby living room look even smaller than it is.

Babet is the only one that stays seated in the same place, the others continually moving and shifting around him. Either from an inability to sit still, like Fauntleroy, a desire to get away from or get back at swatting hands, like Glorieux, Gueulemer and Brujon, or a need for relative privacy, like Montparnasse and Claquesous.

The two of them stand close together in a corner, refilling their glasses and quite ignorant of the fact that halfway across the country, a nervous bride-to-be is beaming at her excited children. There’s no room for considering strangers in this lite piece of home they’ve carved out for themselves.

Montparnasse raises his glass to his lips.

“So does he know?” Claquesous mutters beside him, his attention turning to Babet without actually looking at him.

“Think so.” Montparnasse does the same, watching without moving his head. Babet is make exasperated noises at Gueulemer and Glorieux, fond and exasperated. “But he’s here all the same.”

Claquesous doesn’t answer, but Montparnasse knows him well enough to catch the smile ghosting across his face.

“Faun,” Babet raises his voice on the other side of the room. “You can dye your hair every colour of the sodding rainbow and punch as many holes in your ears as you please, but if I hear you even  _considering_  filing down two healthy teeth just to get those moronic porcelain fang implants— I swear to god.”

Montparnasse looks over just in time to see Fauntleroy’s face form into a teasing grin.

“So I should have it done when you’re not around, is what you’re saying.”

“Nice try,” Babet growls. “But I’m going to be around to stop you all from actively ruining yourselves until the day you learn some damn common sense, and that’s  _final_.”

A chorus of groans and reproaches goes through the living room and under cover of all the noise Montparnasse sits back down, with Claquesous at his side, and an unspoken contentment hidden safely in his chest.


	3. Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Jehan was prophesied to kill Montparnasse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Sydney~

The oracle had been very clear for a change. None of her rolling eyes and shadowy figures in the mist. Montparnasse had asked and she had answered, every word spoken with perfectly clarity.

“A youth full of light will come to your court of shadows. They will carry flames in their hair and constellations on their cheeks and when they leave the court once more, it’s king will be dead.”

“Unless I kill them first,” he had answered, but she had shaken her head.

“Unless they never leave,” he had pressed, but she had given him nothing but denial.

Even with a knife to her throat her answer remained the same:

“The redhaired youth of the light will live and Montparnasse of the shadows will die.”

.

So Montparnasse knew, when they wandered into his graveyard, carrying a lantern scarcely brighter than their hair. He knew by the light in their eyes, by the freckles on their cheeks, by the glow that surrounded them even when they were engulfed in darkness. He knew, but he did not believe it.

Because this creature – Jehan, they had a name,  _Jehan_  – this creature would not kill him.  _Could_  not kill him. Those gentle eyes, those slender hands, those soft lips speaking shy words. Never. Such a creature could not do harm to any, let alone a master of shadows.

So he freely let them wander, even led them by the hand when they asked him, showed him every corner of the darkness that was all his own. And Jehan watched and asked and  _laughed_  and breathed not a word of hate or contempt. As if they were prepared to love the darkness despite coming from the light.

Even later, when he learned to see the scorching heat behind they glow. When his callous words made flames roar in their eyes and he first heard their voice raise like snapping sparks. Even then Montparnasse did not fear them. Because their passion called for creation, not destruction. No, Jehan would not destroy him. And he learned that other words called forth other kinds of burning, making him coax and flatter them until their cheeks glowed red and their heart warmed with racing.

The first time they kissed Montparnasse knew for sure. The oracle was wrong. Jehan would not bring him his death, he would make them the light of his life instead.

.

It was barely dawn, the first rosy light only just visible on the eastern horizon, when the gates of the cemetery swung open in the breeze. Below the partitions of ancient stones, the court of shadows lay still and silent, slowly sinking into slumber. Two pairs of feet disturbed the dewy grass, tracking wet footsteps onto the path, until they crossed the threshold of the gate.

In that quiet moment, Montparnasse of the shadows died. And, on the arm of a smiling redhead, a young man with brightened eyes walked into the breaking dawn.


	4. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Claquesous was a fool and now because of that Fauntleroy got hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Azura <3

“Sous…” Fauntleroy coaxes, for what must be at least the third or fourth time. “Sous, will you please look at me.”

“Keep your head still,” Claquesous instructs curtly and with a sigh Fauntleroy does as he asks.

“It’s really not that bad,” they say again. “Headwounds always look worse than they are.”

Claquesous makes a nondescript noise and continues cleaning the gash on their temple. He’s resolutely silent again and Fauntleroy really wishes he’d just look at them. Because he’s overreacting, he really is.

“There,” they say when he finally seems satisfied that their wound has been properly tended to. “Feel better now?”

He finally looks at them, but it’s with such an expression of dismay that they immediately drop the slightly exasperated teasing.

“Sous, I’m  _fine_ ,” they assure him, catching his hands and cradling them in theirs. “Really.”

“I know,” he says stiffly, but his eyes are already darting from their face to the wound again.

“Then what’s the problem?” they sigh, tugging gently on his wrists in an effort to win his attention back.

He looks at them again, a very specific sort of anger buried in his dark eyes. “You got hurt because I fucked up.”

Fauntleroy just manages to repress the sigh that inspires. They knew this was coming.

“I’m  _hardly_  hurt,” they point out. “You barely call this injured when it happens to yourself.”

“I’m supposed to keep you out of close combat,” Claquesous grunts. “No one should get close enough to you to even  _touch_  you.”

He’s genuinely upset, Fauntleroy can see that, but honestly, they can’t have them acting like this every time they get a scratch.

“I think I managed well enough,” they say lightly, scooting a bit closer towards him on the couch.

“That’s not the point,” Claquesous insists. “I let you get injured.”

There are several ways they could argue with him about this, but frankly, they really don’t feel like arguing. This shouldn’t even  _be_  an argument and Sous should know that. So instead, Fauntleroy pulls their face into the most serious expression they can possibly muster.

“I know. Terribly so. I may not survive.”

Claquesous glares at them, but Fauntleroy keeps a completely straight face.

“I’m serious,” they insist. “This is terrible. I need curing.” They tap their finger against the edge of their cheekbone, just under their injured temple. “Kiss here, please.”

Claquesous’ expression changes just a little. A different sort of glare.

“Well?” Fauntleroy demands with pretend impatience and they tilt their face towards him.

He moves slowly, in that slightly sullen way he sometimes does when he feels the need to wordlessly voice his disapproval. But the touch of his fingers to their chin is so gentle, and the kiss he pressed on their skin so soft, that Fauntleroy feels fully justified in continuing:

“And here, please.” They point at a spot at the very edge of their hairline, above where they’re hurt.

Sous sits up a little to be able to reach them and even as they enjoy the feeling of his hand lightly smoothing down their hair, Fauntleroy takes the opportunity to observe:

“I don’t think you can quite reach me. Here—”

They move into his lap, facing him, and smiling rather smugly when he instinctually pulls them closer as soon as their weight settles over him.

“Where were we?” they grin. “Oh yeah.” They tilt their head so he can kiss the very edge of their fore head, and he does, very gently.

Fauntleroy makes a point of letting a pleased sound purr at the back of their throat. When they tilt their head away from Claquesous’ again he gives them a half-resigned look.

“I didn’t mean—” he begins, but Fauntleroy shakes their head.

“We’re not done yet,” they warn. “I need more kisses.”

Claquesous’ expression is definitely leaning towards amused now. “Do you now.”

“Afraid so,” Fauntleroy nods. “Here.”

They point at the exposed edge of their collar bone, just above the hem of their collar.

Claquesous hums and ducks his head down. This kiss is not so featherlight and Fauntleroy makes another happy sound.

“And here,” they go on, brushing their fingers against the curve of their neck on the other side.

Silently Claquesous’ pulls them a little closer still, hands pressing their waist, and his face buries into their neck.

“I feel better already,” they breathe, slanting their head to the side.

“Are you sure?” His voice comes out low and darkly pleasant, none of that unwelcome guilt or distress hidden in the tones anymore. Good.

“Positive,” Fauntleroy answers. “But you better keep going for a while longer. Just to make sure.”

He loos up at them and Fauntleroy pities every single person in the world that only ever gets to see his eyes from behind his tinted glasses.

“Where do you need kisses then?”

“Mmm, here,” they say, softly touching their cheek. “And…here.” They drag their finger down to their neck again as soon as Claquesous’ lips press to their cheek. “And there,” they smile, as soon as he tilts his head back enough for them to look at him, and they gleefully press their mouth against his.

They’ve quite forgotten about the gash on their head. To be honest they never really minded it. The guy who did it really shouldn’t have turned his back on them when they doubled over, he really shouldn’t have. Fauntleroy smiles into the kiss, winding their arms around Claquesous’ neck and kissing him deeper. Sous follows their movements exactly, sliding a hand into their hair and holding them close enough for Fauntleroy to forget that they were playing a rather good game.

They remember when he breaks away long enough to mutter something against their lips that ends in the word “bed”.

“That sounds pretty good,” they breathe, leaning away just far enough to look at him, but not so much that they have to let go. “But I don’t think I should try to walk on my own,” they add solemnly. “Far too dangerous.”

For a moment Claquesous does that odd, delightful thing where the features of his face scowl but his eyes light up with even more affection, and then abruptly pulls them closer against him, hitching their legs up round his waist as he rises to his feet.

Fauntleroy squeaks, wrapping both their arms and legs around him tighter to steady themself. They go to hide their face against his neck but Sous makes a warning sound.

“You bite me like last time and I might drop you.” Even if he had managed to sound genuinely threatening right now, the affection in his voice would have negated it. In fact, al this does is make Fauntleroy grin, and nuzzle against his neck just a bit more deliberately.

“Then walk faster.”


	5. Bitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Zombies have happened, Jehan was bitten and Montparnasse has just found out.
> 
> Cw blood,injury and a general horror environment for the setup.

Jehan screams when nails suddenly dig into their ankle and they kick viciously. Montparnasse is by their side in an instant, his bludgeon coming down with a nauseating crack, but by then Jehan has already lost their balance. They feel a burning sting cling to their leg even as they scramble backwards, pain making their breath hitch high in their chest every time their right foot tries to brace itself against the ground.

“Finch?” Montparnasse turns his back on what is now most definitely a corpse. “Finchling, you ok?”

“Um—” Jehan gulps. Their heart seems to be blocking their throat, panic clawing at their spine. Their right pant leg is shredded at the cuffs. Shredded and stained with blood. “I…I don’t—”

“ _Fuck_.” The frantic note of dread in Montparnasse’s voice lands on Jehan’s chest like a choking weight. “Fuck, no,  _Jehan_ —”

Jehan does nothing to stop him when he drops to his knees beside him, but they already know there’s nothing he can do. They wince when he touches the wound, ripping the fabric of their clothes away from it, but they force themself to look at it. His cold fingers make them shiver, even through the pain. It  _hurts_.

“It might…it might not get infected.”

Montparnasse is a brilliant liar, he’s had more than enough time to perfect the craft, but right now his words sound empty.

Jehan looks up at him pleadingly. “Don’t do that.” They swallow. “Please.”

The noise that spills from Montparnasse’s lips is one of grief and denial. He sinks down until he’s seated on the ground, just like they are. The two of them sit in silence, nothing but the quiet groaning of the battered building around them.

Slowly, pushing the pain to the very edge of their mind, Jehan composes themself. “Parnasse…”they begin, finally.

Montparnasse raises his head, his face painted with dismay. “No.”

Jehan actually laughs, letting themself slide down until their back also meets the rough floor. “Gods your stubborn.”

“We agreed,” Montparnasse says urgently, moving closer to lean over them with anxious care. “We agreed,  _not yet_.”

“I think the circumstances changed a little just now,” Jehan replies, looking up at his face. There’s dirt on his marble cheeks. It doesn’t suit him. They reach up, attempting to wipe the smudge away, their hand warm and pink against his cold cheek. “I know you don’t want to,” they say softly. “But I also know you  _do_  want to, and…I want you to.”

For a very long moment Montparnasse looks at them, staring down at them with a few locks of his dark hair tumbled forward. Then, with a curl of his lip that has become very familiar to Jehan, he grimaces in discontent. His fangs gleam pearl-like in the dim light, mesmerizingly beautiful for just a second before his eyes narrow to a scowl.

“…you were counting on this happening, weren’t you.”

Jehan can’t really cross their arms like this, lying on the floor as they are, but they would have. “If I was going to get myself bitten on  _purpose_  I could have done it  _weeks_ ago,” they protest indignantly. “ _Months_ ago!”

Montparnasse bares his teeth at them, but there’s no malice in it, only helpless frustration. And Jehan knows this isn’t fair on him. He’s been so careful, so respectful, so unwilling to threaten their mortality. Even when they asked him to… He convinced them to wait. Told them they still had time. But that’s changed now. Right now their time is running out. They have as long as it will take that bite to get infected. As long as it will take that infection to kill them and take root in their brain.

They don’t need to tell Montparnasse any of this. He knows. Of course he does. But for some reason he still—

“I  _promised_ ,” he groans. “I promised your scruffy friend and his annoying bottle-blond boyfriend that I’d get you to Refuge  _safely_.” There’s an indignant kind ofanger straining his face and voice.

Jehan nearly smiles. They do love him, so much. Their friends will understand, they’ll have to. When they know what the alternative was.

“So,” Jehan looks up into his eyes, “go ahead then. Keep me safe.”

Montparnasse glances down at the wound on their leg and then back up at their face. Emotions flit across his face, flickering between love and regret and barely repressed longing.“I love you,” he says, nearly sighing.

Jehan smiles, still lying outstretched on the dirty floor but seeing nothing but him. “I love you,” they echo warmly.

And with that Montparnasse lifts them up off the floor, supporting them in his arms as he softly presses his lips to theirs.

Their kiss is slow but it deepens until all of Jehan’s senses are full of Montparnasse. They don’t feel his teeth, don’t know what he did, but suddenly they taste him. They taste his blood, cool on their tongue but hot in their throat, and they swallow as they kiss him without thought of breathing.

Jehan doesn’t remember when their eyes closed, but they’re closed now, and they’re wrapped in gentle darkness as the sell and taste of Montparnasse winds around them like his arms do. Every time they swallow they can feel themself sinking into him deeper, feel him fill them more. And yet they don’t lose themself. They can’t lose themself, because they’re right there, in his arms. He’s carrying them and they suddenly  _understand_.

Everything Montparnasse ever told them, every smile he gave them, every gentle word, fond touch, laughing look, loving kiss, they can feel it from the inside out. Like all of that was flowing through his blood, and now it’s flowing straight into them.

Jehan Prouvaire dies without even realising it. Their eyes don’t open for the loss of their breath, not for the stopping of their heart, only for Montparnasse, when he finally pulls out of their kiss.

His lips are red when they look at him. Red and smiling. “You kept your freckles,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you would.”

Jehan laughs and their laugh doesn’t sound even a bit different. They don’t need to look to know the infectious wound is closing already, whatever toxicity it might have threatened them with dying in their dying body. But they have never felt more alive. And Montparnasse, their beautiful,  _beloved_  Montparnasse, he is looking at them with all the glorious mixed-up happiness of a man who just stole something absolutely priceless.


	6. Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Claquesous just caught Fauntleroy in a lie, and not a harmless white one.
> 
> Cw anxiousness and emotional hurt.

Montparnasse hasn’t looked up from his phone for the past five minutes, but Fauntleroy can tell he’s about to speak. They know him well enough to feel his focus shifting. The fingers of his free hand have stopped tapping on the arm rest of his fauteuil, for a start.

“So when are you getting over yourself and talking to Sous?”

There is a single beat of stunned silence before Faun is able to react. They shrink into their chair, making themself even smaller than they already are, but not in a withering way. They’re bracing themselves. “I’m not,” they bite sharply.

Montparnasse’s eyes flit in their direction for a fraction of a second before he starts texting again. “You’re avoiding him, it’s annoying. I’m sick of listening to him bitch about it.”

The soft features of Fauntleroy’s face are remarkably capable of showing harsh edges. “I don’t have to trample my feelings for your convenience, Montparnasse.”

He gives an indifferent click with his tongue and Fauntleroy swallows a snarl. He has no right. And he can’t make them do  _anything_.

“Your feelings,” he scoffs. “So that bullshit you’re pulling now is the constructive thing to do, is it?”

Fauntleroy feels the stinging of tears at the back of their throat and they  _refuse_  to cry. “It shouldn’t be so hard for  _you_  to understand not wanting to be around the person you can’t be with.”

Montparnasse’s fingers stop moving, hovering frozen over his phone, but Fauntleroy doesn’t even feel a shred of guilt. They chose to be angry instead of hurt. And their eyes are dry.

“Nice,” Montparnasse sneers coldly. “But I’m not the one in love with one of my best friends.”

“No,” Fauntleroy mutters, turning away from him. “You’re the one screwing both of us over.” They stare at their knees. “I’m doing this for him too you know. We both need distance.”

“I don’t get a say in that, then.”

Fauntleroy’s heart stops. Their widened eyes are still locked onto the pattern of their trousers, but they don’t have to look to see the sudden movement in their peripheral vision. It’s not Sous though, it’s Montparnasse, swiftly getting to his feet.

“Would you look at the time,” he drawls. “If you need me, I’ll be not here.”

Fauntleroy barely hears him, the rushing of their own blood in their ears is too loud. They’re painfully conscious of the absence of sound though. It’s quiet after he noisily shuts the front door behind him. Sickeningly quiet.

Slowly, Fauntleroy looks up at the doorway.

Claquesous is standing on the threshold, a bit to the side as if he hasn’t moved since Montparnasse pushed past him. For perhaps the first time since they’ve known him Fauntleroy is grateful that his tinted glasses prevent them from meeting his eyes. But he’s staring at them from behind the smoked glass, they can tell. And there’s a sharp line around his mouth that looks so much like hurt that Fauntleroy’s heart twists inside of them.

“Sous—” they barely manage. “I—” But they don’t know what to say. They would have been grateful for an interruption, but of course Claquesous is silent. Out of all their friends, Claquesous is one of the few who always lets them speak.

Fauntleroy shuts their mouth, brave enough not to avert their eyes, but at a complete loss as to what to say.

Claquesous waits, looking at them silently and all but motionless, until he finally stirs. Slowly, he takes off his glasses and as blank as his expression is behind them, it’s still a shock to suddenly see his eyes unshielded.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t see you in that way.” Claquesous’ voice doesn’t falter, but it’s strained, kept steady by sheer force. “Those were your exact words.”

Fauntleroy’s heart is almost blocking their throat. They have no way of knowing when Sous came in, no way of knowing how much he heard, how much they need to explain away. Because they have to explain it away. They can’t tell him, not now. Not after what they told him before. They move their lips soundlessly for a moment, but when they finally bring themself to speak, they can only manage to one thing. “…I lied.”

The silence that follows is deafening and a quiet panic claws at Fauntleroy’s ribs from the inside out as they see

“I didn’t mean to,” they blurt. “But you tried to kiss me and I—” Their face grows hot and this time they do look away. “—I wasn’t sure if I wanted that and then I thought I did, but I didn’t know what else you’d want and I knew that I  _wouldn’t_  want that and…” They hadn’t known what they wanted, or what to do. They still don’t. Fauntleroy swallows. “And I…I wanted you, but not like that. It just…we were so good together.”

And then they ruined it. And lied to him to try and fix it.

Claquesous’ voice comes from the exact same height and direction it did before, he hasn’t moved an inch. “Could have told me that instead.”

Fauntleroy’s head jerks up. “What was I supposed to tell you?” they plead, the pricking of tears dangerously present in their throat again. “That you couldn’t have anything  _you_  wanted, but that you’d just have to stick around until I found out what  _I_  wanted? For however, however long I—”

“Yes.”

They shut their mouth, staring up at him. “What?”

“You could have told me that. You could have told me anything.” His voice sounds rough compared to a moment before and Fauntleroy involuntarily sits up in their chair, looking at him intently. Because they don’t remember this, this look in his eyes. They remember a conversation hazy with wine, a smirk-like smile from behind his shades and hands gently pulling them closer. Not this.

“I didn’t mean to kiss you,” he says, his voice straining with composure. “Not like that. I wanted to, but I wanted to ask first.” For a moment his expression wavers into a grimace and suddenly his words come very fast. “If I blew my chance to be with you, I get it, and I don’t fucking care anymore.” His jaw clenches and Fauntleroy silently stares up into the hurt look on his face. “Faun, just, tell me what to do so you’ll be near me again.”

A weak sound escapes from the back of Fauntleroy’s throat and they’re out of their chair and halfway towards him before they even realise it. They weren’t imagining the hurt they saw on his face earlier. They’ve  _never_  seen him look like this and yes, they feel guilty, but they’re also—

Fauntleroy stops with their arms halfway outstretched. “Sous can I—?”

He makes a frantic sound and pulls them into a hug before they can finish their question. Their face is immediately hidden in the folds of his coat and they bury against him, wrapping their arms tightly around him. They squeeze their eyes shut, inhaling the mix of indistinguishable smells that makes up his scent, and smile stupidly at the feeling of his arms hugging them closer than he has ever done.

“I missed you,” they mutter, their voice muffled against his chest. Trying to stay away from him the past two weeks must have been one of the most draining things they have ever done. And that’s saying something, considering their history.

Sous makes a soft noise that would be completely nondescript were it not for the warm tone of his voice, still a little hoarse.

“And I’m sorry.”

This time the noise he makes is more disgruntled. Maybe because he doesn’t want them to be sorry, or maybe because he feels sorry himself. Either way, Fauntleroy wishes they had talked to him sooner. Perhaps not that same evening, but sooner. Way sooner.

Gently they pull away a little and Sous immediately lets go. That wasn’t exactly their intention, but they don’t protest, looking up at him instead. There shouldn’t be such a difference, should there, between being around and being  _with_. Because being around Sous is so easy, when they’re not thinking about it at least. They work well together. Whether they’re climbing through recently broken windows or sprawled out on a couch bitching at the unrealistic portrayal of their jobs on tv.

The latter sounds rather attractive right now.

“We should probably talk,” they smile weakly, when Sous finally meets their eyes.

“I don’t care what we do,” he says emphatically and Fauntleroy smiles a little wider. The tension has drained from his shoulders. He nearly looks genuinely happy, even. “Whatever you want.”

“We could talk later,” they say warmly. “Can you stay? For a while?”

He nods and Fauntleroy just catches an odd expression flickering across his face.

“What?”

Claquesous’ mouth pulls to the side a bit as he puts his glasses back on. “Parnasse told me to clear my schedule.”

Fauntleroy bristles. “Manipulative bastard,” they mutter under their breath. They’ll get him back for that, they vow, as they gently pull a vaguely amused Sous towards the couch. And after they get him back they’ll thank him. Maybe, if they’re feeling generous.

Maybe it’s the short burst of indignant anger, or maybe it’s just the fact that Claquesous seems to have dropped all of his resentment without question. That  _is_  something they’ll want to talk about, that and some other things. A lot of things actually. But the thought that they  _can_  talk about them, later, when they both feel like it, but that right now they can just flop down next to him on the couch like they used to. That alone is wrapping them up in a warm, content sort of security.

Silently, Claquesous reaches past them to pick up the remote to their suspiciously new tv and passes the remote to his other hand. He leaves his arm stretched out on the back of the couch behind them.

With their smile by now becoming very persistent Fauntleroy moves back just enough to lean against him. Vaguely, around the edges of the smoked glass, that nearly invisible happiness diffuses over Sous’ face again.

Okay, Fauntleroy thinks as they let themself relax against Claquesous’ side to the tune of their favourite true crime show, by the time they get to talk to Montparnasse again they’ll probably be feeling generous.


	7. Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Claquesous is forced to betray his loyalty to Montparnasse.
> 
> Content warning for general roughness and criminal activity, because…Patron Minette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Anna ^_^

Montparnasse’s body still hurts from falling and running when he finally finds his way into his apartment. The first thing he sees is Claquesous and the first thing that comes out of his mouth is a string of curses.

“Oh good,” Claquesous smirks, looking the picture of composure as he gets up out of Montparasse’s favourite chair. “You got away.”

“How fucking  _dare you_ ,” Montparnasse spits. Claquesous is damn lucky he didn’t have to fight his way out, because if that had been the case he would have kicked his ass for this.

Sous’ smirk. “Oh come, on I’ve seen you wriggle out of tighter spots.”

“ _Salaud_.” Montparnasse angrily shrugs off his jacket to check if the leather got torn or scuffed. He doesn’t wear his  _best_  clothes during work, of course, but—

“You would have done the same.”

Claquesous’ voice is right in Montparnasse’s ear all of a sudden and Montparnasse elbows backwards, to where his friend should be, but of course isn’t anymore. Instead he’s right beside him, ready to catch his arm and pull a hissing Montparnasse towards him.

Montparnasse’s first attempt at a struggle makes a pulled muscle in his shoulder scream with anger and he swallows a curse. “I would,” he growls. “And  _you_  would have knifed me for it.”

Claquesous tuts at him, wrapping strong arms around him from behind, both his hands reaching towards Montparnasse’s wrists as if he’s afraid he’ll do something nasty if he has his hands free. “I’d  _threaten_  to knife you,” he murmurs, pulling Montparnasse’s hands towards him. “Wouldn’t actually do it…”

Montparnasse has half a mind to bring the heel of his boot down on Claquesous’ foot, but suddenly he feels something cool slide over his skin. He glances down, just in time to see Claquesous clasp a gorgeous platinum watch around his left wrist. His anger and frustration is temporarily replaced by wild admiration. And a good deal of triumph. He’d been  _certain_  that place would have some good stuff stashed away. It’s delicious to be proven right.

Sous meanwhile has released his hand, but is still holding on to him, his chest pressed to his back. “I saw this,” Montparnasse hears him mutter close by his ear. “And I figured you’d be disposed to forgive me if I brought it back for you…”

…nice try. “This is supposed to be an apology?” he sneers. “Try harder.”

Claquesous hums, pressing a slow kiss to the back of his neck. That’s very annoying, because anger or no anger, Montparnasse can feel a pleasant shiver rolling down his back all the same.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty?” Sous purrs. “Pretty enough even for you.”

Montparnasse moves his hand, slowly flexing his wrist. The watch is heavy and solid, and it  _shines_. It’s gorgeous.

“There were some gold ones too, but this suits you better, less gaudy…”

“Hm.” Montparnasse sniffs. He can feel Sous’ breath ghosting past his neck.  _Some_  gold ones, more than one. That’s good. Very good. He makes another nondescript noise. “Is this you trying harder?”

Claquesous’ laugh is virtually inaudible, it’s never is much more than an irregularity in his breathing, but Montparnasse catches it, just before he feels Claquesous’ lips on his skin again. The aching tension in his muscles relaxes just a little. By the time he feels Claquesous’ teeth, Montparnasse’s eyes have blinked shut.

“You’re an asshole,” he breathes, leaning into Sous’ body a bit more heavily.

“Mmm,” Claquesous hums.

His hands hands slide down and Montparnasse opens his eyes just in time to see two glittering rings slipped onto the ring and middle finger of his right hand. His lips part in a greedy smile.

“ _Now_  we’re talking.” He grins, lifting his hand so the jewels catch the light. “I do love a ruby.”

“I wouldn’t do this for mere trinkets,” Claqeusous murmurs in his hear and that reminds him—

Montparnasse moves, sharply, and knocks Claquesous off balance, kicking one foot out from under him so he goes down swearing. Before he can get up, Montparnasse steps over him, one boot planted on either side of his hips, staring down at the angry surprise on Sous’ face.

“ _That_  was for selling me out for an easy getaway,” he snarls.

Claquesous bares his teeth, but Montparnasse is already sinking to his knees on top of him.

He grabs a handful of Sous’ hair and drags him into a short, messy kiss.

“And that,” he pants, letting his head drop down to the rug again. “Was for bringing me pretty things.”

Claquesous’ dark eyes spark at him and Montparnasse smirks. “Now show me what else you’ve got.”

Instead of either struggling or complying, Sous raises his hands, spreading himself out under Montparnasse in a teasing mockery of submission. “Come and see for yourself.”

Montparnasse only needs a second to wrestle open Claquesous’ coat and lower himself fully on top of him.

“You’re lucky I’m so fond of pretty things,” he hisses, gleefully slipping one hand under Sous’ shirt while the other closes around something promisingly cold and metallic in one of the inner pockets of his heavy coat.

Claquesous grins up at him darkly. “So am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are~
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


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